


Volitility

by RicePaper_Fox



Category: Weiß Kreuz
Genre: M/M, One Shot, Origins Speculation, Pre-Canon, Psychic Theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-05
Updated: 2014-03-05
Packaged: 2018-01-14 16:17:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1272961
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RicePaper_Fox/pseuds/RicePaper_Fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever logical Crawford, who felt that the whole team needed to be aware of each others weaknesses, except for his own. Because he had to be infallible, which he wasn't, dammit. He was human, just like the rest of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Volitility

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally written about a year ago, and was just now finished with an attempt to change some ideas that I unintentionally recycled in the ReverseFest.
> 
> I should mention that I tend to write all my stories within the same continuity. So there are references to other stories I've written (posted or not). For the most part, you don't need to read anything else to know what's going on.
> 
> As a final note, the term "Einsatzgruppe" is used with a certain amount of sarcasm here; the term refers to a task force, and in Nazi Germany were really just death squads.

“Do you think this place is haunted?” Nagi asked.

 

His voice echoed in the emptiness of the abandoned factory, and Schuldig was reminded how young he was. Not for the first time, Schuldig wondered at the fact that Crawford had put in a request for an eleven-year-old, and Rosenkreuz had granted it. Schuldig hadn't been allowed to even train in the field until he was fourteen, and here Naoe Nagi was a full-fledged operative.

 

He wasn't named Prodigy for nothing. Still, there were bits of training that Esset was allowing him to receive on the job. Bits like psychic theory.

 

“There's no such thing as ghosts,” Schuldig said. “Not as most people think, anyhow. Residual psychic energy exists everywhere.”

 

He felt that same energy crawling up his spine. He didn't feel it very often; in a busy place, where the energy constantly flowed, he didn't even notice it. But like dust, once it settled, it suddenly seemed everywhere, and even completely talentless people could feel it.

 

Schuldig hated abandoned buildings.

 

The place had probably been closed down about ten years. Like most places like this, it had been emptied of things useful to the owners, pillaged of anything at all valuable by looters, and was now scattered with crumbled plaster and trash. He picked up an old, unused milk carton. The face of a missing child stared back at him. Jenna Greenlen, disappeared April 1981, age ten. Kalamazoo, MI. He dropped the carton to the floor.

 

“How long?” He turned to Crawford.

 

There was a slight pause. “Two hours.”

 

Nagi and Farfarello seemed to accept this answer. Schuldig did not. The pause was not one that involved Crawford's precognitive abilities. In the three years that he'd known Crawford, he'd never before felt this kind of hesitation in the precognitive.

 

“How many?” he asked.

 

Again that pause, and it set Schuldig on edge. “No more than we can handle.”

 

“Do you actually know when or how many, or are you just guessing?”

 

“Schuldig.” Crawford's voice was warning.

 

_May I speak to you for a minute?_ Schuldig asked.  _In private_ .

 

Without waiting for an answer, he walked down the hall to a small office with a broken desk. Crawford's mind was silent, as usual, but Schuldig could still feel him following. He shut the door behind them.

 

“Alright,” he said, “What gives?”

 

“I don't know what you mean.”

 

“You know exactly what I mean,” Schuldig said. “Why are you being so unsure? Arriving two hours ahead is far more time than we need, even as a first team mission. So what don't you know?”

 

Crawford's considered his answer for some minutes before answering. “You might be surprised.”

 

“That's not an answer.”

 

“You should trust me.”

 

Schuldig gave a bitter laugh. “That's rich. So let me ask you, why should I trust you? Because let me tell you, a team leader who doesn't feel they can trust their own abilities is  _far_ worse than one that over-estimates himself.”

 

“I trust my own ability fine.”

 

“Do you? Because it seems to me that you've gone and put together a team of the most powerful individuals Rosenkreuz had to offer, and now you're questioning that decision.”

 

Crawford sighed. Schuldig sensed a sort of hum under the shields, as if the older man was debating how much to tell him. Sometimes, Schuldig just wanted to punch him.

 

“The more powerful a person's ability, the more volatile they are,” he finally answered.

 

Schuldig scowled. Farfarello had behaved himself quite well recently. And Schuldig had behaved as far as work was concerned for a long time, at least in any way that mattered. In fact, he was pretty sure he'd learned after he'd knifed his previous team leader.

 

“I don't think Farfarello or I will be a problem,” Schuldig finally said.

 

Crawford gave a quiet scoff. “Think about what I said.” When Schuldig didn't come forth with a response, he continued. “Nagi came to me after he blew up an orphanage. Like the rest of us, he struggles to control himself and his power every day.”

 

Schuldig began to feel apprehensive. “And what about you?”

 

“...I once had a vision so powerful, it knocked me out for three days. Prior to that, I hadn't seen anything for two weeks.”

 

“How long has it been since you've had a vision?” Schuldig didn't want to know as much as he did want to. Real fear was building in his gut.

 

“Nearly a month.”

 

“So we're going into this completely blind?” He was doing his best to control the volume of his voice. “And you weren't going to say anything? Why the hell didn't you turn this mission down?”

 

“How would _you_ inform Esset that your abilities were suddenly non-existent?” Crawford asked, as if it were the most obvious solution in the world.

 

“And what happens if you get one of these...tsunami-visions?” Schuldig asked.

 

“You take over. You've been listed as my second.”

 

_Christ_ . He needed a smoke. He dug in his pockets and pulled out his box of cigarettes.

 

“Don't smoke that in here.”

 

Schuldig was too angry to speak.  _Fuck you, Asshole. You don't just drop a bomb like that on me and not expect me need to smoke_ .  _And anyway, why the fuck would you list_ me _as your second?_

 

_You're older than the other two. Legal. And you have more field experience_ .  Of course, ever logical Crawford. Who didn't think it necessary to tell Schuldig that he might suddenly be in charge of an Einsatzgruppe. Today. No advance notice necessary.

 

Ever logical Crawford, who felt that the whole team needed to be aware of each others weaknesses, except for his own. Because he had to be fucking infallible, which he  _wasn't_ , dammit. He was human, just like the rest of them.

 

Schuldig was shaking with rage. He wanted to respond, but he couldn't seem to think straight. Instead, he shook his head at Crawford.

 

“There's no guarantee that it'll happen within the next few hours. Or even today.” Crawford sounded resigned.

 

“Yeah, right.” Schuldig finally said. 

 

He couldn't stay in this room anymore. He yanked the door open, but Crawford stopped him with a hand on his wrist.

 

_Trust me_ , he told Schuldig.

 

_I have been. Why don't you remind me why._

 

And with that, he pulled himself free and marched out into the main area of the factory.

 

~ ~ ~

 

The temperature was dropping. Schuldig blew on his hands and watched Farfarello scratching something on the floors. He had clear memories of the madman carving the Eighth Circle into the floor of his cell in Rosenkreuz. It had been impressive. Now, watching from a walkway above, he wondered if he was creating another Circle.

 

_What's wrong, Alichino?_

 

Schuldig smiled the nickname. Farfarello had called him that when the first met, and it had taken a while to convince the Irishman that it wasn't his name.

 

_Crawford's being a shit_ . He responded.

 

_We heard you two arguing._ _Lover's spat?_

 

Schuldig scoffed.  _If that's what you call scolding him for his lack of responsibility._

 

Farfarello's laughter rang out through the factory.  _And here we thought you were the one lacking in that particular trait_ .

 

_Crawford wants us to believe he's perfect._

 

This seemed to confuse Farfarello for a moment. But for a madman, he was amazingly astute. While he didn't know the details, he understood the gist of what Schuldig was saying.

 

_Only God is perfect. How long will you remain angry at him?_

 

_I haven't decided_ . Schuldig thought for a moment.  _It depends_ .

 

_On what?_

 

Schuldig glanced down at the treasure in his hand and didn't respond. Instead, he felt out with his mind for Crawford. He was sitting next to Nagi; there was a soft, white noise in his mind, and that's when Schuldig knew. And Crawford knew, too.

 

_I'll stay here with Prodigy_ , he said.  _You take Berserker._

 

_Why should I listen to you?_

 

He felt Crawford's sigh.  _Can you please be difficult later?_

 

_Are you going to at least tell the kid?_ Schuldig asked.

 

_He knows what it looks like when I get a vision. It'll be fine_ .

 

Somehow, Schuldig doubted that. But he'd do as Crawford asked, and would be difficult later. In the meantime, they had a mission, and he figured he'd best make short work of it. He placed the little cardboard carton where he'd be able to easily retrieve it again, and called Farfarello over to him.

 

~ ~ ~

 

Crawford woke up with an aching body and a path in time. He was feeling a little nauseous, and he was reminded of a time he'd had a future ripped away from him. Yet this time, he had a peace of mind that negated any possibility of tampering.

 

He groped for his glasses as he heaved himself out of bed. Seemed someone—presumably Schuldig—had taken the time to take off his clothes. He wore only a pair of loose sweatpants.

 

The flat was silent and dark as he made his way into the living room, and for a moment he thought the others were all asleep. Then he saw the orange glow of a cigarette by a window, and the equally bright halo of hair lit up by a street lamp.

 

“We were lucky to get out of this alive.” Schuldig turned to look at him, expression hard. Pissed.

 

“Damn right, I'm pissed,” Schuldig finally said.

 

“Stay out of my head.” The response was automatic. God, it tasted like he'd been bathing a cat.

 

“I'm not in your head,” Schuldig said, giving a sarcastic smirk. “Your shields are shot to Hell. I can hear every thought going through your mind, whether I want to or not.”

 

“...How long have I been out?”

 

“Nearly a week.” Schuldig took another drag on his cigarette.

 

The telepath seemed to have been waiting all week to criticize him, and Crawford was struck by the irony of the situation. “This was our first fucking mission as a full team. You are supposed to be the team leader. Instead, I was suddenly dumped in a position of responsibility that I did not expect to have. I had to deal with a terrified Nagi and Farfarello completely drunk on blood lust, while trying to get _your_ unconscious ass into the car. I then had to make a full report to Internal Affairs explaining why this mission was so unbelievably botched. And considering how severely limited my socio-political abilities have always been, it's amazing I managed to buy us time. ”

 

“Did Schwarz take out the targets?”

 

“Yes. Along with the building, our informant, and five Evangelists that Farfarello happened to see passing by with picket signs. The sixth got away, and I had to track her down and destroy her memory. We're facing an inquisition. Just so you know.”

 

“I don't make mistakes.”

 

“Uh-huh. Well, too fucking bad, cause you just did,” Schuldig snapped. “You said yourself, our strengths are also our weaknesses. And if you want me to be your second, you better fucking well tell me if you're having issues, so I can be prepared. No more of this last minute shit.”

 

“It will be fine.” Crawford was doing his best to keep his voice level, but he could feel the anger boiling in his chest. And if his shields were in as bad a shape as Schuldig said, then the telepath could feel it, too. “Are we done here?”

 

“No,” Schuldig said.

 

Crawford could see a smug expression starting to form. It was inevitable, he supposed, that Schuldig would take advantage of him in some weakened state. Didn't mean that he liked it. And God, he'd been warned about this, several times. A fellow precognitive had warned him that it was a risk to take Schuldig. People are always surprised, she'd said, when they get mauled by their pet tigers.

 

Wasn't that the truth.

 

“Don't fret, Mein Herr,” Schuldig said, giving another bitter smile. “It won't be as painful as you fear.”

 

Crawford narrowed his eyes suspiciously. Schuldig hadn't called him that in years, and it was usually a sign that the German was in control of the situation and knew it. “What do you want?”

 

“Two answers,” Schuldig said. “And you should take it as a sign of respect that I'm giving you the chance to answer truthfully, rather than simply going in and ripping it out of your head. And you know I can.”

 

“There's no such thing as only two answers to the type of questions you're going to ask me.”

 

“Feeling better already, huh?”

 

No, he wasn't. But he knew that if he were in Schuldig's position, he'd want the same information. And Crawford knew, however grudgingly, that the telepath was being perfectly reasonable in asking these things of him.

 

“First, do you know what brought this on?”

 

Crawford considered how to answer this. “There are theories.”

 

“More psychic theory?”

 

“Always.” This time it was Crawford's turn to give smile. Schuldig waited expectantly, and Crawford smiled. “Turning points. Life is full of them. You could say every moment is a turning point, and anything can trigger a vision. But they differ in scale, and the greater the turning point, the deeper the silence I get before them.”

 

“How often does this happen?”

 

“Rarely. I was fourteen years old, last time.”

 

“And what was the turning point this time?”

 

“Schwarz. I suspect that the mission itself was the trigger.”

 

Schuldig smoked in silence for a moment, apparently processing what he had been told. Crawford wished that Schuldig would continue talking, or maybe just leave. He wished that his visions hadn't destroyed his shields. So many thoughts about the German raced through his head, from things that Schuldig knew—God, he's beautiful, I want him—to things he didn't want to reveal yet—or ever—and did his best to quash before they were fully formed. That someday, they could very well be equal partners. That Crawford might truly love this beautiful creature beside him.

 

He wouldn't think about his visions, not yet. He didn't think that Schuldig really want to see them, anyhow, unprocessed as they were.

 

“What's your second question?” He asked, though he already knew.

 

“Why did you name me as your second?”

 

“I already told you.”

 

“I'm older. I have more field experience,” Schuldig said. “But that's not good enough. As far as I know, Nagi would make a far better leader than _I_ would. He's certainly more like-minded to you than I am.”

 

Crawford nodded. This question was easy to answer on an emotional scale, much easier than the last.

 

This didn't involve revealing secrets of his being.

 

“It's true,” he said. “Nagi is more like me. He's steady, meticulous, sensible, controlled and responsible. But in an emergency situation, that is not what is needed, certainly not without precognitive abilities. You are more quick-minded. You're far more resourceful than he is, and have a far better sense of _now_.” Crawford paused, trying to articulate what he wanted. “I chose you for the same reason that you disliked that abandoned factory.”

 

“Another strength that's also a weakness?” 

 

Schuldig's sarcasm surprised Crawford. It wasn't unusual for one of them to occasionally resent, even hate their abilities, but Schuldig seemed to consider a latent ability to be a total hindrance.

 

“Yes,” Crawford said. “Psychic theory. All telepathic and clairvoyant abilities are closely related, just as all physical abilities are. You're not clairvoyant, Schuldig, but you have an...intuition.”

 

Schuldig laughed. “Now I think you're just making shit up.”

 

“Maybe I am.” Crawford gave his best attempt at a mysterious smile, although considering how much Schuldig could hear at the moment, may not have had too much effect.

 

Schuldig gave a resigned sigh and shrugged. He crushed his burned-out cigarette in an overloaded ashtray on the coffee table. It was then that Crawford noticed the cardboard milk carton in Schuldig's hand. He wondered how he missed it. Schuldig looked down at it, then back and Crawford.

 

“I won't ask about this today,” he said, but it was clear that he wasn't about to let Crawford off the hook.

 

“What is it?”

 

Schuldig crossed the room and handed it to him, then left to his own rarely-used bedroom, closing the door behind him. Crawford barely noticed. He was too busy staring at his own five-year-old face. Brad Crawford, black hair, brown eyes, missing July 1976 in Atlantic City, NJ.

 

It said more about him than he ever wanted anyone to know.


End file.
